Besting
by Eobard
Summary: Hmm...A Prince (no, not Legolas. Sorry girls) is in need of reassurance, but it comes from an unlikely quarter. Just a little story about misconceptions and being (or not being) the best. My first fic.


Besting  
  
Disclaimer: I own nothing. [insert funny remark about how I love Tolkien and wish I had the rights here.]  
  
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If we have one thing in common, then it is that we both detest parties like the one we are suffering through tonight. However, of our many differences the most stark this evening is his poise and my reserve. Considering our respective stations, it should be otherwise, I think. No, I wish. I wish we could trade dispositions and things could be otherwise. Now I laugh. In this bitter, starless night, it seems I can do nothing but reflect on my own failings. It's ironic, really, considering this whole affair is for me. I look back into the warm, well-lit hall pervading cheer and happiness. There must be scores of eyes filled with mirth and mouths brimming with laughter. I do not know what repels me from it all, though the dancing may be a strong possibility.  
  
I smile as I see 'Wen and Amrothir whirl past the window near me. Between the two of them they posses enough good humor to make even Mordor cheerful. I chuckle bitterly at this thought as well. If that is so, I must be bleaker than any realm the dark lord created. As Gilrael and Leof pass the window next, I tense. 'Rael has the best eyes of any of us, and if someone could see my shadow, it would be her. But she merely laughs at something Leof has said and moves on. Perhaps I have inherited some of my father's stealth after all, managing to escape my sisters and their friends. But it is Bron that I want to hide from this night, as on most others when we are together. I suppose I must have gotten good at it at some point in time.  
  
The baloney nearly radiates against the blackness, the white marble glistening the light of distant candles. I run my hand along it, the smooth stone and silken ivy, looking below to the city that no void could keep from my sight. Even the very outlines are magnificent, and despite my vow to be melancholy and thus ward off any effort by my parents to include me in tonight's celebration, my heart fills with pride and love and a fierce determination, and all thoughts of being miserable fly from my mind. I stand erect and clench my fist, eyes and jaws grimly set, ready to do anything for the view before me. However, the moment passes, and I slouch once more. Although, now as I turn away and walk through the bushes and stripling trees, I wonder what it must be like, to have that honor and energy and that undying resolve in a heart all the time, like my father and his friends do.  
  
Like Bron does. I can see it in his eyes when we ride, in his arm when we spar, in his voice when he speaks. I perceive that intangible might and fierce will in him. But not in me, save random occasions such as this. Before I can compare us further, I hear a shout and sigh as I turn. Someone has spotted me. I just hope it isn't 'Doc or Pip, or worse yet Elfwine, who always heralds trouble. As the shadowy silhouette comes into view, a strong, broad-shouldered man with dark hair and a wide grin strides toward me. I gulp, realizing that I have grossly miscalculated my estimation of peril. It is Bron who hails me and makes some joke I can't quite register.  
  
"You could at least grace us with taking a drink inside, 'Dar. I've had to suffer 'Win and Baradil and a full-blown conversation with our mothers this night." I laugh despite myself. Father put it best when he said that forces of nature like Bron's mother and mine should never ally with each other. A storm is one thing, my son. He said. A storm followed by fire falling from the sky is quite another.  
  
"I pity you, then. No man should endure such torment. Surely, you deserve to be commended for your bravery, captain." Bron laughs, but my voice seems listless, even to me.  
  
"No." He gasps through his chortles, "Please, no more leering commendations, cheering hordes, or threats of knighthood." But then his face turns serious, and he seems to scold me. "Honestly, 'Dar. I thought that there was no ceremony between us."  
  
I do not catch what he is implying. "What mean you?"  
  
"Captain." He replies pointedly. "By Varda and all the stars, 'Dar, you should know I've heard enough of that rubbish in there." He jerks his thumb back at the hall. "I do not blame you for being out here either. You have it worse."  
  
I nod solemnly. "Indeed. I do." Then, either the one glass of wine I drank at the beginning of the evening has gotten to me, or I am struck by inspiration and continue, "Although if you carry on excelling, Bron, you may best me in the category of being fawned over." Even as I finish, I leave my point unsaid. You may best me in this like you have in everything else.  
  
"Maybe," He agrees, warm laughter flowing over us and into the hall. I wince. Someone will hear him and seek us out. " It is well that we have had good practice fighting armed and fanatical enemies, I say, so that now we can effectively ward off admirers and fellow officers and lovely feasts such as this."  
  
It would be easier for me to hate him, I think sullenly as I laugh with him. Bron has a manner I cannot help but admire. After reflection, I realize that 'Rael or 'Wen probably did see me, and Mother sent Bron out to retrieve me for that very reason. "I hardly consider this lovely." I mutter, gesturing toward the dance floor.  
  
"You wait." He says merrily with a knowing smile, "Once you finish your stint in Arnor, anything other than cold stew and stale bread will seem lovely."  
  
I frown. He had to bring that up. It is not that I am not eager and willing to leave Gondor for Evendim and the rangers I am to serve with. I am. But, when Bron was of age to serve, he did not wait for his father to secure him a command, even as a minor officer, but went down to the first circle and enlisted like any other man. He has spent two years working his way up the ranks and now is captain of the Ithilien rangers, the youngest ever. How am I to compete with that, when Father has seen to it that I receive my commission?  
  
"Nervous?" Bron's buoyant voice brings me away from my musings. I slightly awkwardly realize that I have not spoken in some time.  
  
"A bit." I concede, wondering what the lesser of two evils would be: Going into the hall or staying outside with Bron.  
  
"You will do fine." He says as if I were a child that needs reassuring. I admonish myself. Concerning command, I am.  
  
"You are just the kind of commander for the northern rangers." He continues. "The type that leads from the front but doesn't get too involved with his men. No so well loved, but respected nonetheless. It's a good kind to be." He smiles but I don't understand what he means by this either.  
  
"That is a marriage of opposites, Bron. And if I remember aright, an oxymoron does not make for a good commander." This is, I think, my best joke of the night, but Bron shakes his head and does not laugh, quite a feat for him.  
  
"To be a good soldier, 'Dar, you must love the army." He says quietly, his eyes boring into my own. "But to be a good commander, you must be willing to order the death of the thing you love. You will know and love your men enough that you will never be willing to order them to risk their lives pointlessly. I can see that. But, you know your duty well enough to risk theirs and your own in time of need. In your heart you will never hesitate. It was a lesson I learned the hard way."  
  
For a moment, just one moment, the merry face of my friend and rival, which suffers no signs of the weakness and imperfection I wear so clearly on my own, gave way to the face of an old man, bent and burdened. His eyes shone with a profound sadness and weight I had never seen before. And when the moment passes and Bron smiles again, his grin is rather like my own, forced, sad and self-deprecating. It is rather foolish, but I fancy that whatever Bron learned to make his smile like mine, I have already experienced, even if I do not yet understand it. I know that I saw loneliness and doubt in his eyes, and now he seems to me more human and real than he ever has.  
  
At length, we discuss Arnor and the last of the rebellious Hillmen and Orcs held up near Fornost. Bron seems impressed with my favored tactics, although his differs greatly. We are still debating when two figures approach us.  
  
"Of course. I knew it. They're both trying to dodge duty by catching colds." I smile, recognizing Theodwyn's voice. Soon she comes into our light, her shining dark hair and powerful gray eyes belying whatever in her looks demure and dulcet. Bron only gives his bombing laugh in response.  
  
"You dare impugn the honor of the crown prince of Gondor and the captain of the Ithilien rangers, woman?"  
  
"Do not talk to me about daring, oh high-and-mighty captain." She answers in fake severity, and I laugh now. Always, I enjoy the verbal battery 'Wyn and Bron inflict on each other. "Least you forget, Boro," She adds with a gleam in her eyes. "I am my mother's daughter."  
  
"Then it is well that I am not a ringwraith, lady." I say, gladly letting the rare warmth in my voice show.  
  
"You never know, 'Wyn." Celebrian says as she appears, looking every bit as silver and radiant as her name. "After all the time he spends in the dark, he may well be."  
  
"Please spare us from your wit tonight, my ladies!" Bron says, holding up his hands in mock surrender.  
  
"Yea, name your terms, oh valiant women." I add, smirking.  
  
"I think they are insulting us." Celebrian said in false indignation.  
  
"We would never be so rude, my lady." Bron interjects smoothly before 'Wyn can offer her agreement.  
  
"Then at least try and act like the polite gentlemen you are supposed to be and come inside before Elfwine hurts himself." Theodwyn says pointedly. All of us laugh. Elfwine may have a smile that would stop any Rohirric maid in her tracks, but in Gondor his luck is not so splendid. I think that only by the combined efforts of 'Bron, 'Wyn, 'Rael and myself has he not ended up in serious trouble at court.  
  
"Very well." Bron says with an over-dramatic sigh. "A cousin's duty is never done."  
  
"I pity Queen Lothriel." Celebrian agrees.  
  
Not to be outdone, 'Wyn adds, "I pity the entirety of Rohan."  
  
"I pity us." I say wryly, and as Bron and I smile and shake our heads together, I lead the way back into the hall, unable to see the logic that had bade me leave it in the first place. 


End file.
